"No,—no,—I haven't laid eyes upon him since last night," and she clutched Barnhurst by the arm,—"Where did you leave him?"
"He went home with me," replied Barnhurst, and stopped to gaze around that room, dimly lighted by a single candle, as though he was afraid that Dermoyne was concealed in its shadows.—"I left him in the parlor down stairs. He was determined to wait for me until morning, and then come with me to this house. But this morning, when I came down stairs, he was not there."
"He was not there?" echoed the Madam, breathless with impatience.
"He wasn't there; there was blood upon the sofa and the carpet, and marks of a struggle."
The Madam uttered a round oath and a cry of joy.
"Good,—capital! My boys have done their work. You see, Herman, I sent Dirk and Slung after him, and they've laid him out. It's a sure thing."
Herman, even in his fright, could not but help shuddering, as he heard the cool manner in which she spoke of Dermoyne's death. The next instant the idea of his own safety rose uppermost in his mind.
"Do you think that your fellows have taken good care of him?" he asked.
"Don't doubt it,—don't doubt it," and she rubbed her hands joyfully together. "It's a sure thing!"
A raven-like voice, behind her, echoed, "Sure thing!" It was Corkins, of course.